


Saturdays

by Scorpling



Category: Vinland Saga
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:43:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scorpling/pseuds/Scorpling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They bathe on Saturdays, like most Vikings. Thorfinn is sullen, Askeladd amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saturdays

They bathe on Saturdays, Askeladd's Vikings the same as any other Danes. One week's worth of sweat and grime gets washed away by the stream, and the spirits are high, the resounding laughter scaring away the birds usually picking away at the shore.

Askeladd takes his time picking his ears. The sun is shining, the air unusually mild this early in the year. Only a few weeks, and they can take off, the sooner the better. Each day they spend in Gorm's village costs him gold, and even though he refuses to let the riches take control of his mind, seeing more and more hard-earned treasure going from his hands to Gorm's isn't entirely pleasant.

But today is no day for sour thoughts. There's more gold where that came from, and it will reach his hands in time. Some will pass through them and some will slip into his pockets. His men are laughing from things that have nothing to do with bloodshed, and though Askeladd isn't the peace-loving kind, today, in the sun, he feels as if this kind of laughter is almost melodic in his ears.

Of course, not everyone is laughing. Thorfinn is as sullen as ever, sitting some distance away, tending to his knives. Those must be the damn best well-tended to knives in all of Jutland, the way he's constantly fussing over them. A glaring contrast to their owner, the scruffy brat. Not washing on a Saturday, keeping his coat on even on the warmest day of Spring so far.

No man of his party sets a foot on any of his ships filthy, or they're going headlong into the sea to either clean up or drown, whichever comes first. Thorfinn can claim he's not one of them all he wants; if he travels with Askeladd's crew he will follow Askeladd's rules.

He isn't the only one with the same thoughts. A few minutes later, when Askeladd's mind has already shifted to Gorm's daughter and her various assets, there's a splash from Thorfinn's general direction, followed by an enraged yell and sounds of scuffling. It only takes one look to figure out the situation. Björn, holding down a furious and thoroughly soaked Thorfinn, has apparently taken the matter of the boy's unhygienic habits into his own hands, a trough lying on the ground beside them, still glistening in the sunlight.

Askeladd knew there was a reason he made that man his closest confidante.

"What's with your hair?" Björn says, finally managing to get Thorfinn to sit down again, being the stronger of the two. He tugs at the blond tufts, now hanging heavy and straight instead of being an unruly, tousled mass on the boys head. "I'll cut it. It's all in your eyes."

His answer is an elbow to the gut and an angry growl as Thorfinn tugs his hair from Björn's grip and scrambles to his feet, hands resting on his knives.

"Give the lad a rest." Askeladd's not in the mood for fighting. Not today. If Thorfinn gets mad he will lose what little sense he has, and then Askeladd, in his turn, might lose a man. Or a crazy kid with a one-track mind. Either way, he's not up for it. "If he doesn't want to cut it, let it be. The less I have to see of his scowly mug, the better," he continues, standing from his seat.

Thorfinn glares at him for a few seconds. Askeladd directs an amused, but steady stare back at Thorfinn. He always wins their staring contests; just like he wins everything else Thorfinn ever tries beating him at.

Then Thorfinn plops down on the ground again, his back to Björn.

"Fine. Cut it."

Askeladd laughs, and so does Björn, even if Askeladd suspects he has no idea whatsoever what it is they're laughing at, apart from the obvious: Thorfinn. They often do.

"What's so funny?" the boy snarls, shaking the wet locks from his eyes to, his fists clenched so hard the knuckles are white.

"Good to know I have such an influence on you. The smallest comment and you change your mind completely."

If Thorfinn grids his teeth any harder, they're going to chip.

"You don't! And I'm going to keep it long so I won't have to see _your_ bearded mug!"

He walks up to Askeladd as he talks, until he's facing him as well as you can ever face someone a good foot and a half taller than you.

This can end here, and Askeladd can go back to picking his ears while enjoying his nice, peaceful Saturday. If he doesn't say anything, Thorfinn will back down and sneak off to sulk in his corner. He won't fight without provocation.

"Lad. You need to work on your comebacks."

It takes him five minutes to give Thorfinn a concussion.


End file.
